Looking Death in the Eye
by Olethros
Summary: The perils of writing fanfiction about Hannibal Lecter, aka playing with fire


Looking Death in the Eye  
  
Rating: PG-13 for violence  
  
Timeline: After Hannibal, far outside of canon  
  
Disclaimer: Hannibal Lecter does not belong to me, he belongs to himself and to Thomas Harris, and he's used herein without permission. Please don't sue...but if you do, all you'll get is a monstrous history book and a broken CD player  
  
A/N: A repost, as many have not read this after the grammar mistakes were fixed. This is what happened after reading scary stories, studying too much history in the dead of the night, and then going to sleep and dreaming. Kudos to glimmerdark for "A Tale to Tell Over Supper" for the original concept that inspired this insanity. You rock my world!  
   
  
------  
  
The light was too bright. The comforter was scratchy. It was far too late at night, or was it far too early in the morning? Dunno. And the book was far, far too goddamn heavy. Her teacher called it the brick, telling her that it could come in handy. If she ever saw a bank robber, she could just chunk the book at his head and...never mind.  
  
Where was she anyway? Oh yeah, history of Poland-Lithuania. Kinda ironic since she should be VERY interested in this topic, considering...but lack of sleep creates a fuzzy haze in the mind so powerful that even THAT couldn't penetrate so that she would learn anything useful.  
  
She adjusted her earphones, the cool classical music of Hans Zimmer soothing her a bit as she refound her place in the book. She read to herself, more out of habit since there was no one around to hear her. The 'rents were away having fun in California. No brothers, no sisters. Boyfriend? Yeah. Right. Nobody. A creak as the house settled.  
  
"The kingdom of Poland-Lithuania was formed when the Grand Duke of Lithuania married Queen Jadwiga of Poland. The union of the two countries lasted for almost four hundred years before the Russians."  
  
She continued reading softly, unable to hear herself for the music. Somewhere outside a cricket chirped at some disturbance. A low growl of thunder in the sky, a storm was coming. She heard none of it and as the music continued, she felt her eyelids drooping closer and closer together.  
  
No. Must. Stay. Awake. Must. Stay--oh, what the hell. Her head dropped against her chest and she was out in a second.  
  
---------  
  
She couldn't have slept for more than a few minutes, uncomfortable as she was. Her bed was against the wall and she had been sitting upright, leaning against the wall. A whistle of wind and the soft pattering of rain outside. She could hear it now that the CD had ended and the headphones had slipped around her neck. Okay, maybe she had slept for more than a few minutes.  
  
Ow, cramp.  
  
The door creaked open.  
  
_What the--?_  
  
He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He was dressed in a trench coat and a fedora that hid his maroon eyes until it was removed. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he set the fedora down on a chair next to her bed.  
  
Sheer shock was overriding any fear that may have been building in her veins. And shock made her say the most irrational things. "Umm, yeah. Make yourself right at home."  
  
He did so without pause and with no indication that he had heard her. He put one hand into his pocket and felt around for something. Found it.  
  
Oh shit. Phone. She needed a phone. Police. Phone was across the room from HIM. Might as well not be there. Huh, maybe she could send the police telepathic messages. SOS, SOS, helpless female alone in a house with the world's most wanted. It was a dream.  
  
Had to be.  
  
She never made such lame jokes when she was awake. Well, maybe once. Or twice.  
  
Just as she had feared, his hand came out holding a silver Harpy. THE silver Harpy, you idiot, you didn't read _Hannibal_ a gazillion times not to realize that. And now he was coming toward her.  
  
Okay, now would be a good time to wake up.  
  
She had imagined a lot of scenarios, but nothing like this. Wake up, girl, and then go back to sleep and dream something a little less scary.  
  
He paused in front of her, tapping the blade against his small white teeth. She had been staring at him goggle-eyed and hadn't even realized that until he spoke.  
  
"This is not a dream, I assure you."  
  
She nodded slightly, robbed of the power of speech. She licked her lips and tried again. "Wha-what do you want with me?"  
  
"What do you think? And do you know who I am?"  
  
"How could I not?"  
  
"Humor me."  
  
"You are Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Also known as Hannibal the Cannibal to some. Renowned psychiatrist, possessor of rather unusual culinary tastes, and murderer of twenty and counting."  
  
"Hmmm, they never do get the number right."  
  
"I do my best."  
  
"You speak as if you're not frightened of me."  
  
"No, because any minute now, I'll wake up and all this will be is an interesting dream."  
  
"I thought we discussed this already. The person before you, a friend of yours I believe, was a little less stubborn. Although it turned out no better for her in the end."  
  
Was he talking about what she thought he was talking about? Oh crap. No, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...dear God, please just a dream.  
  
"If I pinched you, would it make you a little more convinced? Shall I?" He advanced, the Harpy raised slightly.  
  
"No!" That came out a little louder than she meant it to.  
  
Easy now, remember he can't tolerate rudeness. But if he had come here for what she thought he had come here for, any precaution was pretty much useless.  
  
"Oh, you offend me, I thought you would be overjoyed to observe the object of your desire at long last. You so often hunched over a glowing computer screen with no thoughts in the world other then my life, my love, my deeds...all this pandering to my life simply because you have none for yourself."  
  
"I have a life!" She said hotly, throwing caution to the winds.  
  
"Truly. What was the music you were listening to before I came in? The soundtrack to your fantasy perhaps?"  
  
"I don't have the _Hannibal_ soundtrack. I was listening to music from a movie called _Gladiator_ directed by Ridley Scott." She paused, thinking. "Dr. Lecter--."  
  
"Yes, I know. I have plans of calling on Mr. Scott, after I've finished with you."  
  
She was doomed.  
  
She should be afraid. Should be scared that all her hopes and dreams, all she had done in her life was now useless, but she felt nothing. No fear, anger or despair. Nothing. Her mind refused to believe what her heart already knew.  
  
"No...go away. You're not real."  
  
He sighed. "It is truly tiring to have the same conversation twice. A pity I did not arrive before you had awakened, it would have saved so much inconvenience. Just how far do you plan your denial to take you?"  
  
"As far as I need to before you disappear."  
  
"Do you want to know what I think of you and your stubbornness?"  
  
"Do I have a choice? Don't bother, it won't work."  
  
Right thing to say. He was interested now. Perhaps she could keep up this charade for a bit longer. "How's that? Please enthrall me with your acumen."  
  
"I don't even know myself. So whatever you say...it will mean nothing. Since I will not know if it's the truth or not."  
  
"If I said that you were a pitiful being, wishing to be included. Wishing to be accepted by your peers and this wishing has driven you to a point where you will sell yourself for others' acceptance. And when that fails, retreating to your world of ideas and trying to block out the whole world, indulging in fantasies only to be set back before the ugly face of truth. Would you consider that untrue?"  
  
Keep your face like a stone crusader. "No, perhaps not. But I wouldn't support the notion either. And tell me, how is my retreat any different from a memory palace? I think I've had enough of this dream, please go away now. My mind is preoccupied with history right now. You are merely a part of my life and will have your time later in the day."  
  
She returned her eyes to the history book. "The Grand Duke of Lithuania changed his name to the Polish Wladyslaw Jagiello and began his dynasty that lasted until the Russian invasion."  
  
He was coming closer to her now. Her voice shook as she forced herself to keep reading. Just act like he's not there. Will yourself to believe that he's not there...it's the only way you'll make it through this. "Lithuania was rent to pieces by World War II when Nazi deserters retreating from the disastrous battle of Stalingrad --." And then her voice broke and she just stopped. Her eyes traveled upwards to his neck, to his mouth, his nose and...  
  
He had paused after her words, clearly deliberating. And for the briefest moment, she thought she saw a flicker of true confusion in his face. He looked at her once again, an unreadable expression on his face. And then she made her big mistake. She looked him straight in the eyes and as she saw herself loom up in his pupils, the rough barricade that she had so painfully constructed was dashed to pieces. She knew and he knew. And as she saw the expressions in his eyes change, she realized what was going to happen a split second before he did it.  
  
She jerked her head back, slamming it against the wall. Stars burst in her vision from the self-inflicted semi-concussion as she saw him lunge forward, Harpy raised. He stopped his knife hand, the tip of the blade a millimeter from her throat. She was breathing hard, and as she stared at him in true panic, he raised the Harpy, bringing it up until the blade was hovering a hairsbreadth from her left eye.  
  
He grabbed her wrist in his hand and she let out all her breath in one gasp. The book fell from her lap to land on the floor with a thud that shook the whole house.  
  
He brought his face closer to hers and his breath caressed her cheek. It felt like pins and needles. The really bad kind that made her hop around for hours afterwards. His face and mouth moved closer, and at the last possible second, turned away before contact was made.  
  
She felt his voice move over her face like soft cobwebs. A low rasping breath let out with a sigh. Her heart did a nose-dive to her stomach. "Do you visualize your scenarios, exchanges with me?...Of course you do...tell me, how often do you think of me? The truth now...your barricade is gone."  
  
The truth. "I-I think of you every waking hour, you make my life bearable, you envelop me whole and..." she shuddered as he brought his face closer still. It was useless to pretend anymore, "...oh God..." Her breath stopped in her throat.  
  
"He won't help you now. You know that...now that I'm standing right in front of you, do you feel the urge to consummate your fantasies?"  
  
_That might be easier to answer if you didn't have a knife in my face._  
  
But even her sarcasm couldn't affect the aching, throbbing pain in the middle of her chest. It spread throughout her whole body, erotic in its equal parts pain and pleasure. Her heart ached, her hands hurt, her face hurt, even her fingernails hurt. And yet...it felt so wrong. This didn't happen to her, never to her.  
  
It was surprising how easily Lecter could read her thoughts now. "Pitiful, lovesick, and all alone, the outcast...misunderstood, horribly misunderstood. I'm here now. What will you do?"  
  
Don't say what he expects. He'll become bored that way, surprise him. A gurgle from her throat. A barely whispered phrase. "I don't know."  
  
A beat.  
  
His face pulled away and his hand slid from her wrist. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"I-I never thought our encounter would be like this. I never thought we would ever have an encounter. I imagine, I fantasize...but when it actually comes down to it, no, I would--could never do it."  
  
"I find that surprising, as the people of your generation seem to have no greater goal than to lose their virginity."  
  
Anger now was overriding fear. That was good, because as irrational as anger made her, fear made her even more so. "That is both impudent. And untrue. You would be the last person I would suspect to believe in stereotypes." It was refreshing to debate, and it cleared away the cobwebs that his voice had spread over her face.

She knew now how Clarice felt to toss the verbal hot potato around with him. All their mental jousts of equal parts sarcasm and wit must have been what kept her sane through all those years of separation and rejection.  
  
"Are you using my own words against me now? How droll. Tell me, you're intelligent yet foolish, meek yet daring, in love with me, yet..." he tilted his head to one side. A small smile. "Yet normal. What does that make you exactly?"  
  
"A seething mass of contradictions."  
  
"Or perhaps just too frightened and insecure to develop your own personality, that is quite possibly the saddest thing I have ever heard."  
  
"I could say the same thing about you," she snapped.  
  
His knifehand stiffened again and his voice returned to frozen steel. "All it takes is a little twitch of my hand. One slight tremor forward and you will be seeing the world as half an arch. And you know as well as I do that half an arch won't stand. Will you beg for mercy?"  
  
She drew breath harshly through her constricted windpipe. Despite the steel pointed directly at her eye, it could never obstruct her view of his eyes. She continued staring directly into those pools of maroon and there was an odd sensation of falling. Those eyes were even more mysterious in person. Her stomach lurched and yet she still managed to choke a response. "Never."  
  
A long, long pause. "You're very good. I admit, you almost had me fooled."  
  
"Should I say thanks?"  
  
"Perhaps, as they might be your last words."  
  
"You won't kill me."  
  
"How can you possibly know that?"  
  
"If you were, you would have already done so."  
  
"Who are you to analyze me? True, I don't normally kill people like you, but I find age to be merely a state of mind. Don't you agree? How old do you feel right now?"  
  
"Not...not old enough to die."  
  
A cruel, one-sided laugh. "Mischa didn't feel old enough to die."  
  
"But you didn't kill her." She saw the muscles shifting underneath his skin as she spoke and then she knew. That brief flicker across his face, undetectable by anyone other than one who knew what to expect. She knew and she had a weapon to use against him now. But she should never have said next what she did. She would curse her own stupidity for doing so later, but then she could blame it on the adrenaline.  
  
Her voice suddenly became hushed and soothing with just a tinge of worry. "That's why, isn't it? That's why you're so mad at us, at me, because we remind you of her too much. Every touch, every caress, every whispered word tears away some of your wall, the wall that you built to forget about her. The way we write your humanity reminds of you of how it felt--."  
  
She got no further.  
  
Anger filled his face so fast, she had no time to respond. Every single mask that he had painfully etched over his features was stripped away and for the briefest second, she caught a glimpse into Hell itself. The Harpy flashed suddenly in his hands, a silver bullet. The tip of the blade scratching bone and tearing tendons. He struck so quickly, a few seconds passed before she felt anything.  
  
And then she was clutching her hand to her left eye in agony. An exploding inferno of pain. There was blood swirling in her eye socket, leaking out between her clutched fingers, dripping, staining her shirt the color of a Christmas poinsettia. Pain, pain, she hadn't known that anything could hurt so much.  
  
Her hand shifted slightly and both eyes stared up at Dr. Lecter in disbelief. The cut ran from the corner of her left eye to the top of her ear and as she felt between the flaps of skin, a wave of sickness enveloped her, and she realized that she had just touched her own skull. As she looked up at him, the expression on his face was indescribable, so great was the conglomeration of emotions and fury.  
  
"If you *EVER* say anything like that again..." He let the threat hang. "I have made people scream for death and beg like animals for less than that."  
  
Each word hit her like a stinging sheet of frozen sleet. Dare she say anything in return? Dare she? Who knows, he might even admire her for being so stupid. For being a stubborn jackass. Hardy har har. And by this point, she honestly didn't have anything left to lose. A shot in the dark. "You have also admired people for less than that."  
  
"Clarice is nothing like you. She is wise and realizes when she has gone too far. You however...I never had the opportunity to tell you what I thought of your stubbornness." Lecter paused long before he spoke again, choosing his words with the utmost care, as if he were carefully sifting through his arsenal of slaughter knives. "A reckless, idiotic, stupid, foolhardy child...and a warrior...a warrior of Pharoah's army. One who could care less about who may oppose her and never stops until she gets her way."  
  
He pulled her hand away from her face, forcing her to bare the nasty cut. The entire left side of her face was crimson and as the pressure from her hand was removed, the slashed veins and arteries pumped a fresh wave of blood out to drip down onto her white shirt.  
  
"She keeps on attacking, pretending that her defenses still exist even when her soul has been laid bare." He held her bloodied hand in his and traced the lines on her palm with a finger. His finger stopped at the end of the life line. "And when she is looking death in the eye, with not a care in the world, she would argue her case." One hand went into his coat pocket and emerged bearing a handkerchief white as pure snow. He dabbed the handkerchief lightly over her hand and crimson crawled up the white threads like magic. He then placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. A small smile was allowed to tug on the corners of his mouth.  
  
"And she would win. At least in her own mind." The handkerchief reached forward and pressure was put on the wound on her head, her hand still cupped in the other. "You have Mischa's hands."  
  
And then the waves of dizziness hit her, wave after wave again and again. Her consciousness slipping away like the blood running out from her body. Her vision was swimming in front of her face. Oh, dammit, not now, of all times, please not now.  
  
An incoherent mumble. "Dr. Lecter, I..."  
  
"Shhh."  
  
Her field of vision, the complete vision that he had been gracious to leave her was closing in like a train tunnel. The last thing she saw before the darkness overcame her was him reaching forward, a hand poised to brush a strand of bloody hair from her face. His head arched like a dancer and slightly tilted to one side.  
  
--------------  
  
Her eyes opened. Sigh. Comfort. The pillow was soft against her cheek. The whisper of clean sheets against her skin. She was in her bed, drowsiness just starting to overcome her again.  
  
She was wide-awake at once, her eyes dancing around her room. She sat up quickly, ignoring the headrush that occurred because of her sudden movement. Damn, still dizzy. She was alone. The house was silent.  
  
No, no...a dream? Her confessions, fear, anger, and...and love, had it all been a dream? Her hand went up to touch the side of her head. A bandage there from where she had banged her head on a cupboard door the day before. Or was it?  
  
Somehow it didn't seem right. She buried her head in her hands. Memories were flooding her mind too fast and in no coherent order. She remembered blood...so much blood, spilling over her cheeks, down her neck, onto her shirt. She looked down now at the material now, white and spotless.  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
Not her shirt.  
  
The garment was much too big for her and hung about her body like loose skin. The material was of a quality that she could never have afforded. She clutched the fine woven threads in a hand. They felt so soft, smooth, real...  
  
A sudden surge of hope...and then of fear. If it had been real, then what she had done, what he had almost done had all been real. How could she have been so stupid? And yet despite all that, he had spared her life, for reasons she would never fully understand. She felt the bandage again, wondering if there was truly cut skin underneath.  
  
Did she really wish to know?  
  
Yet as her eyes continued to roam around the room, they came to rest on the chair beside her bed. Sitting upon the worn cushion atop her neatly closed history book was a rain-soaked white fedora.  
  
FIN


End file.
